


Bestowing Desire

by Skylasaurus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Cutting, Depression, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Out of Character, References to Suicide, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylasaurus/pseuds/Skylasaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darker take on Teen Wolf. Slow build-up. Rating: R for mild violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts and ideations, teen angst and depression, mentions of abuse and sexual relationships in later chapters. Spoilers: Up to the Season 2 finale; anything Season 3+ is (probably) not mentioned here. Warnings: Male/Male, Male/Female, Cutting, Depression, Character mood shifts/OOC behaviors. [Edit 1/3/14: Work on this fic will be continued, as long as renewed interest is shown. Please rate/review/comment.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day of Wrath

**Chapter One: Day of Wrath**

_“Day of wrath, that day of burning_

_Seer and Sibyl speak concerning,_

_All the world to ashes turning.”_

—Abraham Coles

 

 

“I love you. I have never truly loved anyone but you.”

Gold threads shot through the rosy sky like veins in marble. The water that had collected in puddles around them blazed with light, and Derek went rigid, his head falling back, his open eyes filling to a complete inky blackness, like molten obsidian was rising up inside of him, threatening to crash down like a wave. Deep, black lines appeared on his skin like cracks in a shattered statue. A single droplet of the inky substance, his final farewell, dribbled out of his eye socket, staining the pale, cold skin as it trickled down his cheek. Stiles thought he heard a choked cry coming from the body in his arms, but it could have been his imagination. The sandy haired teenager could feel the saltwater coursing down his own face.

He began to scream.

\+      +      +

 

It all started on a cool October morning. The air in California was chilled and heavy this particular Thursday, and brought puffs of misty opalescence to those who broke the silence by breathing.

“Guys! Guys! You are sooo not gonna believe this,” Stiles Stilinski began chattering excitedly next to his dark-brunette haired friend and the intelligent, captivating re-head who were busy paying attention to their cell phones.

 _She won’t text_ , a cold voice in Scott’s head whispered, and he shuddered under the certainty that voice spoke with while pulling his thin hooded sweatshirt around himself.

“Dude. Dude. _Helloooo_? Are you alright, man?”

Scott looked up, comprehending the torrent of his friend’s inane babble for the first time.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He gazed longingly at his phone, but then slowly, agonizingly, put it away before Stiles could give relationship advice. _Pfft._ Scott almost snorted. _Relationship_ advice? From _Stiles Stilinski?_ Puh-lease. While they had been friends since they were children, Stiles had never even had a _date_ , let alone a _relationship_.

 _Probably because he’s just so damn annoying_ , the voice in his head whispered menacingly.

They continued walking, the backpack hanging haphazardly off of Stiles’ arm slapping his back with each jerky, clumsy step forward.

“Whatever you say, bro,” he heaved a sigh and crossed his arms behind his neck, looking up at the wall of misty slate that circled their peripheral vision. “This is a bunch of bullshit, anyways. Field trips are so lame. I mean, it’s _the twenty-first century_. We have _the Internet_. Our teachers are just dangling the sword of Damocles over our necks, knowing that we’ll beg for mercy like the kiss-assed conformists, pathetic social climbers, and fakers we all are until we graduate…”

He continued his façade, responding to a comment that Lydia would make every once in a while, but Stiles knew that Scott wasn’t listening. Like usual. He began to let his thoughts blur as he rambled, his train of thought far away from that mystical thing called consciousness, far from the plights of the angsty and the downtrodden (a.k.a: teenagers). Well, not quite so far away as he would have most believe…

 _The oak and redwoods were magnificent this time of year_ , he thought idly. The leaves were the colors of flame: orange, yellow, and red, the kind of red that burned with an intensity that reminded him of…

But there he stopped himself, trying to lose his mind in his fledgling werewolf companion’s endless stalemate of despair, afraid of what he might find if he lurked deeper into his own.

Both of them knew it was over. Allison would not be speaking again to Scott. Or texting, for that matter…

 _So why does he continue to check his phone every five minutes then?_ , the nagging part of Stiles’ brain began to surface. _How pathetic. Though we really don’t have much room to talk, do we, Stiles?_ His dark side reared its ugly head, showing its black-toothed grin. Stiles wanted to fight it, push it down, as his loyalty to his friend commanded he do, but…

 _But what loyalty has he ever had for **you**?_ The voice was enjoying the volley of hopelessness that it was shoving down Stiles’ throat. _He kissed Lydia. We **saw** him._

 _Remember how he growled with pleasure? How he slid his hand up her skirt, to pull down her tight cotton panties? And how she liked it. How she moaned like a whore. She was begging for it, begging for him to fuck her—_ Stiles stopped midstep, midsentence, midthought.

He froze as Scott continued walking with Lydia behind the rest of their class, pointing out leaves, and properties of blah blah blah. He began to glare. He felt the white hot burst of rage that passed through him. The shockwave of bestial anger that only the betrayed and hopeless could feel, could possibly understand, and shakingly put a name to.

He waited until his two “friends” and the rest of the class was out of sight, further down the forest trail which was now more heavily covered with fallen leaves, before pulling up his sleeve. He stared at the scattered scars and the smattering of semi-healed cuts that rested there. He licked his lips anxiously as he pulled the sharp razorblade from his jeans pocket. It glinted dully in the cold, dim sunlight, the metallic harbinger of peace that soothed the sins of minds with welts and pools of pain.

_Remember how you’re always behind. Always struggling, but still only able to teeter a few steps closer as they trot and bound away on all fours. It’s because you’re a liability, Stiles. They don’t need you. You’re just a stupid, worthless human being with a disease and a disorder and a dying family—_

He sliced slowly, the deep crimson rivulets bubbling up to the surface of his pale, ivory skin, gasping for the oxygen and fresh air that their fleshy prison was so intent upon regularly depriving them of.

Stiles’ eyes were closed tightly, and he almost gave out a groan of pleasure as the pain jack—ha!— _knifed_ through him, zipping right to his core and eradicating all the painful and confusing emotions that tumbled around in his skull. Because he was only human. He sighed in contentment as he was allowed to focus on this, physical, real pain, instead of the incorporeal demons that lurked underneath, waiting patiently to pull him into the darkness, drowning him in his despair, and then slowly tearing him apart and feeding on the pieces that struggled and jerked wildly as they slowed and were consumed with maws filled with a deep, haughty laughter.

He resurfaced to reality, where he was surprised to find the sharp sting of fresh tears that ran down his face. He let them fall and licked them up as the passed by his mouth.

He heard the snap of a branch and the crunching of twigs coming from his anterior. He whirled around and gasped as his damp, chocolate eyes took in the figure who stood silently behind him.

 

**End Chapter One.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know it’s kind of depressing and dramatic, but it’ll get better. This fic just has a slow build, so be patient.
> 
> A/N: Also, I know many of you may be wondering where the cutting and depression came from. I speak from personal experience while writing this (although dramatizing it a bit), and while watching the first two seasons of Teen Wolf just kind of felt that Stiles would have developed serious depression issues. When it says in the fic that he has a disease and a disorder, I am referring first to his canonical disorder—ADHD—and secondly to his (non-canonical) disease, which would be major depression, which I added to give this story deeper layers. Also, on a different note, my English is not entirely perfect, so some parts of this fic may not make sense. If so, please point them out to me, and I will do my very best to fix them! (This is an UNBETA'D fic. hurrhurr)
> 
> R/R at your own discretion. As mentioned earlier, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to dwinchester for fixing my mistake! When Stiles said, "Sword of Damocles," it was originally written as Patrocles. Thanks for the correction.


	2. Wendigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darker take on Teen Wolf. Slow build-up. Rating: R for mild violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts and ideations, teen angst and depression, mentions of abuse and sexual relationships in later chapters. Spoilers: Up to the Season 2 finale; anything Season 3+ is (probably) not mentioned here. Warnings: Male/Male, Male/Female, Cutting, Depression, Character OCs and mood shifts. UNBETA'D~!!!!
> 
> Animal attacks in Beacon Hills...? Sounds a little bit too familiar. Also, what's up with all of this weather?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that it took so long to update. I promise it will NEVER take this long to update again. Between winter vacation and starting classes again...blegh. So many plausible excuses, but I'll save you the boredom.
> 
> Anywho, I have a rough outline for where I want the rest of the story to go. It will probably ed up being ten or eleven chapters in all, depending on how much of the plot I fit into each one. There might also me an epilogue, but I dunno yet..
> 
> Comment, kudos, or just read. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! Thanks, guys(:

 

**Chapter Two: Wendigo**

  
_"...Like a beast, he is lurking_   
_Hungry for flesh_   
_Once he was human_   
_But now he is death_   
_We have to feed_   
_the belly of sin_   
_To conquer the wold_   
_With the strength to win..."_

  
**Wulfgar** , 'Wendigo'

  
  
The boy walked quietly down the deserted street, only just noticing the chill of the winter air as the breeze pentrated the confines of his thin tee-shirt and baggy blue jeans. He wrapped his arms around himself and continued down the street.

  
Looking up at the sky, he noticed that it was quickly approaching dusk. Clouds lay heavily, piling atop and across each other like a meteorological harem. Hardly any light poked through the thick curtain, but what did was thin and scattering.

The road around him was littered with age old garbage, the debris of his race, and he wondered for the first time where he was. He looked to be in a rundown part of town (or was it a city?) and he really needed to be getting home.

The slight breeze around him whipped itself into a fury, as though it could sense his anxiety, and howled. It tore through his clothes, leaving him shivering and gasping for breath between clacking teeth.

He hurried forward, and tripped over his own feet in his haste to be done with the unfamiliar surroundings he found himself entrapped within. As he fell, he scraped his palms and his jaw smacked upon the concrete of the pavement. Warm blood filled his mouth, and droplets of the liquid mixed with the gravel underneath him. Whimpering slightly, the boy pushed himself to his feet, only to be surrounded by a whirlwind of trash, litter.

The breeze screamed louder than ever, and he was now afraid. He began to run, tearing through the vortex of discarded newspapers and fast-food containers, but the wind stopped him, fighting him, pulling, _pushing against him_ \--he couldn't _breathe_ against the torrent of air. It dragged him into an alleyway, and he was no longer resisting, letting the displacement carry him.

Two screams and several minutes later, the boy walked out of the alley, unscathed. It was now dark, and a single lamppost shone in the distance. His palms had miraculously been healed, and the dark bruises which had just started to blossom about his skin had faded completely. All that was left was skin, ivory skin. So pale. So cold.  
His eye-sockets were empty, seemingly opening into an abyss. Then, ink seemed to roil up within him, rising to th sockets and creating the illusion of eyes. There was no pupil, no iris. Just unadulterated darkness.

The husk opened its mouth in a malevolent grin, and dark blood bubbled out of the corners, dribbling down his chin and putting a murky contrast into its appearance. When it realised what it was doing, the thing licked the blood up and wiped the boy's mouth on its sleeve. Boy, was it hungry.

  
 _So_ hungry.

 

 

 

\+      +     +

Stiles whipped his head around and pulled his red hoodie's sleeve down. There, standing quietly, almost emotionlessly behind him, was Derek.

The man was trying to withhold his expression, hide his feelings, but Stiles was well versed in the craft of deception. The Alpha was... _concerned_. You could tell by the slight hint of a crease in his brow, the anxious pose he took.

The way his mouth twitched when he didn't know what to say, so instead he said nothing. Trying to come off as aloof and cool. Stiles could see him, almost imperceptibly, open and close his mouth a few times.

"I...I smelled yo--...I smelled blood." He let the sentence hang in the air between them, his uncertainty and concern only slightly audible in his tone.

Stiles put on his usual dopey smile and said, brightly,

"Maybe you smelled a wounded animal or something," The brunette kept his voice steady and cheerful, hoping that the almost-lie would work in stalling further questioning. "It probably just mixed in with my scent or something."

Derek didn't looked convinced, but nodded slowly.

"Right..."

The man took a slow, purposeful step toward Stiles and the teen's smile started to melt away. The teen could tell Derek was smelling him. Sniffing for a trace...Derek stepped closer now, so close, _too_ _close_ , and snatched Stiles' arm away from the his side, causing him to hiss in pain.

"Then what. The fuck. Is _this_?" Derek's eyes flashed a fluorescent crimson, which caused a white hot flame of rage to erupt within Stiles, once again.

His plastic smile was completely gone now, not leaving even a trace. Instead, a look of primal anger replaced it and he shoved an unsuspecting Derek away, which caused his Alpha to stumble and stare at the brunette in shock. He narrowed his eyes and issued a menacing growl that reverberated from deep within his chest.

Stiles snorted. "'And then she was alone, with the Big Bad Wolf.' Don't make me fucking laugh." Derek stopped and looked at the other in confusion.  
"You think I'm _afraid_ of _you_? You think I'm afraid of _death_?!" Stiles laughed, a rough sounding thing, like gravel against fine porcelain, and the steely skies above whipped and crackled with electricity.

"Stiles, I--" Derek started.

"'Stiles', what? 'Poor Stiles.' 'Stiles, that loser,' Stiles the _nobody_!! What could you _possibly_ know about being an outcast, a _pariah_ , your whole fucking life?! About having _nobody_ , having everyone pity you, or look at you with disgust?!"

Rain was falling now, steadily increasing, becoming more wild and torrential by the minute. The droplets drenched the two figures, who were at a standstill in the sparse wood.

All of Stiles' classmates were long gone by now, leaving them in alone. Alone.

Scott and Lydia had completely forgotten about him, then. His eyes began to burn and the freezing rain plastered his hoodie and skinnies to his thin frame.

"No one knows _anything_ about me, so don't you _dare_ fucking judge me!"

Derek's eyes had long since receded to their proper hazel, and the expression on his face was a mixture of sadness and determination. Stiles was sobbing now, big heaving, gasping sobs which were torn away as soon as they were let go by the fierce howling of the wind. Derek slowly stepped toward Stiles, and with each step the sobs and wind together faded.

He was now inches from Stiles, and could see the tears running down his face. He took Stiles into his arms, causing the boy to shudder.

  
"I know exactly how you feel."

Stiles took a deep breath and looked up, looking deep into Derek's eyes. Rain still fell upon them, clinging their clothes into a tanged, sloppy mess. The raven-haired werewolf was warm, so warm...The teen leaned further into the embrace, head falling on the elder's shoulder. A long moment of perfect, peaceful silence passed between the two males, before it was broken by the younger.

"Why are you even here, Derek?"

"I told you; because I smelled--"

"No. I mean, why are you _here_ , right now, holding me?"

"I...I..."

Derek looked away, breaking the connection between them. The rain had pattered to a stop, and the occasional drip or dribble from the branches and leaves of a tree was heard in the background. He couldn't look at Stiles' beautiful eyes rimmed with red. Brimming with tears that still threatened to spill.

"Because I care about my pack. And if one...if one member suffers, we _all_ suffer."

They both knew it was a cop-out, and Stiles sighed. Looking at the muddy ground, dissapointed. The puddle he looked into reflected a skinny, miserable creature. A tear rolled off of his cheek, landing into the pool and causing rippling waves to distort his pathetic image.

He disengaged himself from the embrace and turned around. The teen walked home, silently, leaving Derek standing in the middle of the woods. Soaked.

"Goddammit," Derek said, alone.

So alone.

 

 

**End Chapter Two.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, constructive criticism greatly appreciated. The next update will probably be next week or within the next two weeks, at the latest.
> 
> Songs I've listened to while writing this fic are as follows:
> 
> Wulfgar - Wendigo  
> Florence + The Machine - Howl  
> Mumford & Sons - Sigh No More  
> Green Day - Viva La Gloria! [Little Girl]  
> Caliban - Storm of Rage  
> Mychildren Mybride - King of The Hopeless  
> Florence + The Machine - Shake it Out


	3. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darker take on Teen Wolf. Slow build-up. Rating: R for mild violence, mentions of suicidal thoughts and ideations, teen angst and depression, mentions of abuse and sexual relationships in later chapters. Spoilers: Up to the Season 2 finale; anything Season 3+ is (probably) not mentioned here. Warnings: Male/Male, Male/Female, Cutting, Depression, Character OCs and mood shifts. UNBETA'D~!!!!
> 
> Pack meetings....? uh-oh. I can taste the tension like a cloud of smoke in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read/Comment/Kudos/etc. c:
> 
> Thanks to all those who have commented; reader feedback makes updating go much more quickly when I know what I'm doing wrong/what readers would like to see. Thanks again, guys.

 

 

 

**Chapter Three: Meeting**

_“Seek a fallen star,” said the hermit, “and thou shalt only light on some foul jelly, which in shooting through the horizon, has assumed for a moment an appearance of splendor.”_

— **Sir Walter Scott,** _The Talisman, 1825_

 

Stiles arrived at the Hale house at sunset. Looking at his phone, he thumbed toward the text from Scott which read, " _drek wnts us at th hale house 2nite. Pack meet._ " He stayed out of sight, scoping out the ruined, tragic remains of something that had once been beautiful and happy.

Its windows were all smashed in, where there were panes at all. The house’s paint had been more or less burned away, and where it had not been consumed looked like the dried drippings of candle wax, but with a flaky texture, and was peeling off with age.

The fire had left a mere skeleton of blackened and deteriorating wood which threatened to collapse in on itself. The front door hung to its frame at only the rusted bottom hinge, making it sway lazily outward in the crisp fall breeze, almost drunkenly welcoming those who had the misfortune of laying their eyes upon the mournful wreck.

‘ _Welcome_ ,’ it said. _‘Welcome to hell.’_

As Stiles roamed his musings, the sun had fallen, and the shadows it had cast seemed friendly compared to those which the moon, now overhead, pierced onto the sight and left fading away into oblivion. He shivered and slowly clambered out of his old blue Jeep, which had been one of the few presents from his father after his mother’s death, and reluctantly began his trek toward the dilapidated building.

The darkness now had concealed the worst of the fire’s damage, but the white moonlight shone upon the broken glass of the windows and cast deep shadows upon the porch and entryways, making it appear desecrated and forlorn. By now Stiles had passed the overgrown lawn, which seemed to slow his steps rather than propel him, and he looked at the grounds which had so fallen upon disrepair. The rosebushes bred nothing but thorns, the petals of flowers withered and long dead at its base. The grass came up to his shins in places, and weeds were scattered everywhere. He stood on the first step of the abandoned porch, and anxiously awaited those that were sure to follow. It was not the first time he had been early. Not the first by far.

There was an eerie whine in the distance, and Stiles heard the distinct crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs being trodden upon before Scott appeared out of the fog encroached forest that loomed on all sides of the property. The dark-haired pup looked lost, as though he were missing something. A map. And Stiles supposed that Allison had been that map, had been his anchor…and now she was gone. The lonely teen felt a twinge of pity for Scott, but also felt a sadness that was his own; Allison had been more or less his ally, and he thought that maybe he missed her cheerful presence, if anything. Scott looked up, sensing Stiles’ emotions, and saw him sitting alone of the splintered steps.

“Sometimes I wonder why he won’t let us all meet at the abandoned subway,” Scott called in greeting. Stiles shrugged.

“Because he doesn’t trust us to be anywhere in the vicinity of his deep, dark secrets.” He smiled, and the house behind him creaked and groaned in the chilly breeze, bringing a pinch of irony to his statement.

“Hmph.” Scott grunted noncommittally and stood apart from his lanky friend. He’d begun to notice that their friendship was drifting, but hadn’t the tact to know how to deal with it. And so they were quiet, the only noise the steady _whooshing_ of Stiles’ breath as it solidified into a visible cloud of steam, and the quieter, almost inaudible gasps of breath from the fledgling werewolf to his far right.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Derek gracefully appeared out of the white vapor that enshrouded the forest and stopped in front of them, holding that certain air of dignity that only those who have more power and control or command of others than you do can quite grasp. Isaac slipped out of the mist as well, hot on Derek’s trail with slightly less grace (demonstrated by the fact that he tripped, fell, and landed with a painful, _“Ooof!”_ ), but lacking were Erica and Boyd.

“The reason I called the pack meeting tonight,” Derek broke the silence with his smooth voice, much like an oar gently breaking the surface of a pond on its down-stroke, “Is because there have been certain… _disturbances_ ,” at this he glanced at Stiles, who blanched, “With which require immediate action.”

He disconnected his gaze from Stiles slowly and looked to the other members. “I was unable to wait for Jackson to recuperate in the hospital and join us, as the matter at hand is urgent. No doubt you are aware of the bizarre deaths and disappearances that have been going on lately?” He turned his stance once again to face that of Stiles, who was sitting down, and the interaction of body language made him nervous. “I have reason to believe that it might be supernatural in origin. However, I’m not sure what’s causing it yet. I need more information.”

The rest of the meeting was spent talking about intelligence gathering. Scott and Isaac were to get information on the deaths and bodies located within the morgue while Stiles and Derek were going to be checking police records and information on the disappearances.

“You’re aware that my dad isn’t a cop anymore, right?” Stiles felt he had to ask, furrowing his eyes and looking down at the ground in shame. _And it’s all your fault, Stiles…_

“I’m aware of that. But the people around the station are better…acquainted with you than with any of us.”

The teen caught the older man’s gaze, and abruptly looked away. “Fine. But I think some, if not most, of the people on the force are going to recognize you. They aren’t as stupid as most people think. What are you going to do?”

Derek outlined the plans he had, relaying that Stiles would distract the officers while the Alpha would sneak through the back and shuffle through files and records. “Not unlike your

plan with Allison when searching for Gerard’s Monstrology book the night I was paralyzed. I’ve already been doing some recon and have memorized some of the officer’s shifts and break times.”

He turned to Scott and Isaac, who had been eagerly awaiting instructions in silence. “I want you, Scott, to get into the morgue, using your mother’s job as a nurse for a cover. You, Isaac, will first get information on the victims from family members, friends, whoever is most reliable and available. Both of you get as much as you can. We’ll debrief during our next meeting.”

Scott then turned and loped off into the forest, going to his mom’s borrowed car which was parked on the other side of the hill. Isaac turned in the opposite direction and shifted. He was a quick flash, a blur of fur and amber eyes that glowed like coals in a fireplace, and was gone.

Stiles and Derek were now alone on the porch. Stiles slowly stood and looked up at Derek. “Thanks for, y’know…Not saying anything about earlier. And I’m sorry...I’m sorry for the things I said.” Derek’s clear, crisp hazel eyes drilled into him, and Stiles didn’t even realize that they had been standing like that for at least five minutes until at last the former spoke.

“It isn’t my place to tell others about your pain. But if I were you, I would find a better way of dealing with it.”

Stiles turned to stare out into the fog, which reflected the moon’s milky rays with a mysterious glow that seemed comfortable to the brunette. Like it could envelop him, swallow him, hold him…

When he looked back at the place where Derek had inhabited just moments before, he was unsurprised to find it empty. Derek was gone, leaving the porch unoccupied but for a teenager who was becoming more lost every day. He would lose himself in this, in his work, his research, his daily chore of helping beings that didn’t exist, weren't _supposed_ to exist; if only for it to help him avoid the Alpha’s gaze. His gaze was the forest Stiles could always get lost in, the sea Stiles could not find the strength to swim in, and the place he would drown.

Snapping out of his reverie, he started back to the rusty old Jeep, which would take him to a house he could not call home, to a bed which would more often than not find itself drenched in tears. He was alone. They _both_ were alone. When would the habit end?

_When would they talk about what was transpiring between them...?_

_**End Chapter Three.**  
_


End file.
